


Pottsfeild Poetry

by FromAnonymousToZ



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: A short collection of Poetry, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:28:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21623764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromAnonymousToZ/pseuds/FromAnonymousToZ
Relationships: The Beast & Enoch (Over the Garden Wall), The Beast/Enoch (Over the Garden Wall)
Kudos: 32





	1. The Husband of the Mayor

The lantern casts a shadow instead of a light,

The sun is blinding in the middle of the night,

The leaves fall upward and there they stay,

The town is an odd place is what they say,

And if I were you lad I’d run for the hills lad,

Because you’ve made an enemy of a very dangerous man

You’ve made an enemy of a man you’d better beware,

Because the man you’ve made an enemy of is the husband of the mayor

That pretty thing you’ve had on your arm all night,

Their husband’s been looming just out of sight.

Because you’ve made an enemy of the husband of the mayor.


	2. Twice

Mr. Summers and Mr. Snow 

oughtn't to have been called that

Mr. Summers and Mr. Snow 

ought to have been called

Mr. Autumn and Mr. Winter

But they were called 

Mr. Summers and Mr. Snow

And

Mr. Summers and Mr. Snow 

Lived together in the old house at the end of the street 

Mr. Snow

Was a tall thin man

Who towered over the other adults of the town

Who had eyes that blazed silver

And hair white as snow

Mr. Summers 

Was taller still than

Mr. Snow

But much broader across than his old friend

With eyes that gleamed like emeralds

And a smile dripping with gold

Mr. Summers and Mr. Snow 

Spent their days on the front porch

Mr. Snow

Would play the old piano, and

Mr. Summers

Would play the banjo

And together

They would sing

Mr. Snow 

Had wickedly sharp teeth

That were made for cutting and biting

And his hands were always cold

Mr. Summers

Had flat teeth 

that formed a broad smile

And his hands were always callused from working

I used to run through the neighborhood

And I would stop before the house

That belonged to

Mr. Summers and Mr. Snow

And 

Mr. Summers 

Would beckon me up to that porch

And place his old banjo in my hands

And the trees would blaze in autumn flames

The wind would whisper through the trees

As my fingers plucked at strings

As I sat upon the lap of

Mr. Summers

And

Mr. Snow

Would let his fingers dance

Across ivory keys

He would croon out a note

That seemed to hang with ice

And 

Mr. Summers 

Would join in with a voice like wind in the timbers of a barn

And I would clumsily pick out a tune

And the piano would sing its song

The wind snapped cold in the evenings

And it was clear Autumn was coming to an end

And winter was coming to swallow up Autumn

Mother laughed at my sentiments, 

Saying that even if Autumn was swallowed down

It would fester deep within winter

Until spring came again.

And so I should have seen it coming

When 

Mr. Summers 

Was declared missing in late October

And returned again in the early spring

As he did every year,

But when he was gone

I remember

Mr. Snow

Would sit in early December

And would drink

From a flask

Filled with liquid autumn

Whisky

My mother called it

Pumpkin liqueur

My father called it

Alcohol

But when I asked 

Mr. Snow

What he called it

He simply winked at me

And asked me what I thought it was

Bottled autumn I told him

And he laughed

As I had only heard him laugh

With

Mr. Summers.

And he grinned around a mouth of sharp teeth

Ruffled my hair

And took a long drink from

His flask

As he did

Every winter

When

Mr. Summers

Was away.


	3. Inspired by Abandoned Farmhouse by Tom Koosner

He was a big man, says the size of his shoes

on a pile of broken dishes by the house;

a strong man too, says the weight of his load

in an upstairs room; and a good, hard working man,

says the axe with a splintered blade

on the floor below the window, dusty with sun;

but not a man for child rearing, says the

tutor's photo on the mantle

A girl lived with him, says her bedroom wall

dappled with drawings and her desk,

papered with sketches, she was a child,

says the toy box made from a wooden chest,

Money was scarce, say the jars of pumpkin preserves

and bottles of oil sealed in the cellar hole.

And the winters cold, say the coats on the hangers.

It was lonely here, says the long road to the forest.

Something went wrong, says the empty house

in the weed-choked yard. The tutor's photo on the mantle

says he was not a father; the broken bottles

in the cellar say he left in a fury.

And the child? Its toys are strewn in the yard

like branches after a storm—an old iron lantern,

hangs in the lone unbroken window,

glowing brightly . Something went wrong, they say.


	4. Reality

Ledged tells of an old pilgrim deep within the winter wood. 

They said he found the lost souls of children and guided them back to their mother’s breast.

They said he took the wicked and guided them deep into the winter wood, from which they never returned.

The old stories say he is a tall man, always hidden by shadow. 

They tell of a long cloak, the shaggy fur of wolves hang about his shoulders and drapes down around his legs. 

They tell of a crown of antlers that rest upon his brow. The branched horns of the majestic buck wreathing wide like the branches of an old oak. 

Upon his shoulder a long staff, at the end hangs a lantern that burns with the coldest of lights. 

His song guides the lost and his blessing grants passage through the thickest of trees. His tune would lead one to certain death or back to their loved ones. 

From his lips came a hymn that told and twisted the fates of gods and mortals alike. It was said that when listening to his song two lonesome travelers despite hearing the same song would hear only what they were meant to hear. 

He could tell of happy years to come or warn of famine with only a verse.

He could curse mortal men and puppet the fate of gods with his song, but he himself was cursed to wander eternally through the dark wood. 

They said all these things. 

They said these things around fluttering hands and mouths of flat teeth. 

They told their young of him. 

They warned the travelers of him. 

He was a wanderer but not lost. 

It was nothing but superstition.

Story. 

Gossip.

As they assured their trembling children of his inexistence on the nights when the wind howled a man with a thick shag cloak would walk through the town. 

His fingers raked against the shudders of their houses. 

Branches and wind. 

Their houses were locked up tight, slivers of golden light cast in the flaking snow and rain as he walked through their towns. 

The lantern upon his shoulder casts no light. 

He walks through town. 

They do not see him. 

He does not exist. 

A cat with fur of pitch winds between his legs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cannon adjacent rather than cannon compliant, shall we say?
> 
> This one has been done a while, but it was written before I was doing Pottsfeild Poetry, so it kind of just languished for a while.
> 
> Honestly I have so many drafts it would make a novelist swoon, when and if they will be finished? I have no idea.


	5. Guarded.

The moths guard the heart of winter

They are not quick to give such a thing away to any who attempt to steal it

The wolves guard the hand of winter

They are not quick to give such a thing away to any who asks for it

The wind guards the virtue of winter

It is not quick to give such a thing to any who come looking

The trees guard the trust of winter

They are not quick to give such a thing away

The lantern guards the soul of winter

It is not quick to give such a thing to the coldness of the world

And Winter himself?

He is not quick to give. 

Autumn is a creature draped in many skins, 

A creature who is quick to give

And he gives to winter his heart,

Never asking for anything given in return.

The creatures and things that guard the pieces of winter are not quick to give him away

And Winter dares not give himself away. 

But there will come a day,

When winter gives the lantern to autumn. 

And one day, 

The moths will give his heart away

The wolves and wind and trees, 

Will give up the secrets that they keep, 

And Winter,

Will give himself to autumn. 

But that day,

Is a long time coming. 

And until then,

Autumn is content to be the only one who gives.


	6. Amidst Inumerable Summers

Spring begins with a blossom

As the silk spinner wakes

The snow from her brow she shakes

And the frost falls away from all that is rotten

Green shoots split the earth

As the world begins to melt

Away fall our thick and shaggy pelts

As all the lands begin to give birth

She spins the chill into warmth

Which turns to burning fire

As the sea becomes her pyre

And Spring retreats to the north

Summer comes cloaked by sea

The heat rots away her bones

She comes from the locker of Mr. Jones

And she sits beneath, the wild peach tree

The children laugh and play

During the beloved summer eve

And they wish so they need not greive

For innumerable summer days

Ah but Summer begins to wilt

And autumn comes flanked by death

And contentment all in one breath

Coaxed in by a southern lilt

Autumn is coaxed by a gentle breeze

A song upon his lips

As ice and fire begin to eclipse

And the apatite of the world is appeased

The world begins to die

Even as food fills the tables

The world begins to wither as in the fables

As autumn spreads his wings to fly

Autumn leaves when graves are empty

And souls are full

And plenty abounds by the mouthful

He leaves the world to be emptied

Winter comes, coaxed by autumn's kiss

Burning hot upon his lips

As cold and warmth eclipse

And there the world teeters on abyss

Winter is a cold and cruel king

With a gauntlet forged of ice

For his hunger nothing will suffice

The only relief is when he begins to sing

Alas winter's cool embrace

Must too come to an end

As spring drifts upon the wind

And the seasons begin to interlace


	7. Autumn Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween.

Autumn is

A hundred crickets laying down their bows

Autumn is 

The last firefly’s dying glow.

Autumn is

The cooling winds that blow

Autumn is 

The song of crow

Autumn is

The golden fields aglow

Autumn is

The evenings dawning

Autumn is

The old cat yawning

Autumn is

A hundred spirits haunting

Autumn is

The rivers calming

Autumn is 

The death of wanting

Autumn is

A glittering beer

Autumn is

The scarecrow’s crooked leer

Autumn is 

The crested antlers of deer

Autumn is

Stormy skies becoming clear

Autumn is 

Winter’s dear

Autumn is

A searing kiss

Autumn is

Everything amiss

Autumn is

Sweet fulfilling bliss

Autumn is

An embrace I shall miss

Autumn is

A lover’s quiet hiss


	10. Twelve days of excessive gift giving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hng. Since I am bastardizing the genre of poetry, heres my next victim.

The first day of Christmas,

My true love sent to me

A raven in an edel tree.

The second day of Christmas,

My true love sent to me

Two wayward souls, and

A raven in an edel tree.

The third day of Christmas,

My true love sent to me

Three casks of wine,

Two wayward souls, and

A raven in an edel tree.

The fourth day of Christmas,

My true love sent to me

Four pumpkin pies,

Three casks of wine,

Two wayward souls, and

A raven in an edel tree.

The fifth day of Christmas,

My true love sent to me

Five favors paid,

Four pumpkin pies,

Three casks of wine,

Two wayward souls, and

A raven in an edel tree.

The sixth day of Christmas,

My true love sent to me

Six Pottsfeilders talking,

Five favors paid,

Four pumpkin pies,

Three casks of wine,

Two wayward souls, and

A raven in an edel tree.

The seventh day of Christmas,

My true love sent to me

Seven songs singing,

Six Pottsfeilders talking,

Five favors paid,

Four pumpkin pies,

Three casks of wine,

Two wayward souls, and

A raven in an edel tree.

The eighth day of Christmas,

My true love sent to me

Eight turkeys meddling,

Seven songs singing,

Six Pottsfeilders talking,

Five favors paid,

Four pumpkin pies,

Three casks of wine,

Two wayward souls, and

A raven in an edel tree.

The ninth day of Christmas,

My true love sent to me

Nine pumpkins blooming,

Eight turkeys meddling,

Seven songs singing,

Six Pottsfeilders talking,

Five favors paid,

Four pumpkin pies,

Three casks of wine,

Two wayward souls, and

A raven in an edel tree.

The tenth day of Christmas,

My true love sent to me

Ten ribbons teasing,

Nine pumpkins blooming,

Eight turkeys meddling,

Seven songs singing,

Six Pottsfeilders talking,

Five favors paid,

Four pumpkin pies,

Three casks of wine,

Two wayward souls, and

A raven in an edel tree.

The eleventh day of Christmas

My true love sent to me

Eleven starless nights,

Ten ribbons teasing,

Nine pumpkins blooming,

Eight turkeys meddling,

Seven songs singing,

Six Pottsfeilders talking,

Five favors paid,

Four pumpkin pies,

Three casks of wine,

Two wayward souls, and

A raven in an edel tree.

The twelfth day of Christmas

My true love sent to me

Twelve remarks teasing,

Eleven starless nights,

Ten ribbons wandering,

Nine pumpkins blooming,

Eight turkeys meddling,

Seven songs singing,

Six Pottsfeilders talking,

Five favors paid,

Four pumpkin pies,

Three casks of wine,

Two wayward souls, and

A raven in an edel tree.


End file.
